before you, i was but an empty song
by the-speed-reader
Summary: They were lost before they were found; because one without the other was only one half of a shattered soul. / A collection of one-shots involving SkyeWard.
1. An Empty Song

_Hello, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D fandom - I've been planning this for a long time, but only just decided to. You guys have read _**Comforting Nights**, **Drowning Sorrows**_, and many more, but here comes: _**before you, i was but an empty song**. _This will be a collection of one-shots! So follow, because there will many to come. Instead of just posting one by one, from now on I will be combining them into this. Enjoy!_

* * *

"_True love doesn't need proof. The eyes told what the heart felt._" -Toba Beta

* * *

She could sing. Not at the professional level of course, but she could easily carry a tune; he had often heard her humming and tapping her fingers to the beat of a musical rhythm – the sound of her voice, often revealed only in the shower, was one that almost (but not quite) gave him chills. Her tone matched her looks in such a way that he almost _couldn't _stop staring, save the quick, silent moments when the two of them were alone. It was then, those quite times, that he practically drunk up her voice; it was the one memory that he could not get rid of anymore than he could do away with his own conscious.

And so, her voice continued – it echoed along the cold hallways of the bus, breathing life back into the stone black. She sang and hummed all sorts of music and tunes, whether it be something she heard offhandedly over the small radio or something she had stored on a rather primitive version of the iPod. Mostly he heard pop escape from her lips, something that matched her personality and went perfectly with how she felt that day.

He often looked forward to her singing; it was a sound of comfort that calmed him a way no one else could. At first, he thought she didn't notice him looking at her when she sang, or even when he slipped into the shadows of the corners if only to hear her voice. But slowly, carefully, he had begun to notice that she sang more when his mood was low and he fought, internally, against the world. Her fingers had brushed his as she hummed while the pair of them took their turn cooking dinner for the team, along as during movie night, Coulson's way of team bonding. He enjoyed her voice, almost to the point that he wished she would _always _be around to sing.

At least, that is, until the singing stopped. She was shot, point blank, by a man who now held a special piece of hatred in his soul. Her voice had been silence; and so his hatred for the world had grown.

After her accident, her singing was a null event to be heard – that is, not at all. It was as if she too had given up on the world. The melancholy sound was only listened to in the depths of his mind now, kept locked away in his soul. But eventually even that because lost to the winds, and he wished to heard her voice; if not for her, than for herself.

It had been three weeks since the accident and she was finally able to get out of the medical area that had confined her; he was by her side (had been since the moment Simmons had announced the anticipated date of her release) and helped her gently out of the bed, one of his hands falling to her lower back and the other slipped under her thighs, lifting her into the air with a sudden gentleness that he did not know he had. She squeaked as he did this, her arms flying instantly to link themselves around his neck.

"Hey!" she shouts, no doubt surprised by this motion. He only kept his face placid, his hands still against her smooth skin.

They walk along the hallway, meeting the eyes of no others; the rest of the team had left to only god knows where, giving him and Skye space. And for that, he was grateful.

His footsteps were light against the tile and his grip was tight, as if afraid he would drop her. They were almost to her room when a light hum reached his ears, and in surprise he nearly dropped her.

She yelped, again, but this time a little less urgently – she had only just began to get comfortable, he mused, as he regained his grip on her and slipped open the door with his foot. His hands loosed, only slightly, as he set her on the mound of blankets and pillows (courtesy of FitzSimmons) before retreating quietly, his mind storing at a rather quick speed the sound of her voice, heard, if only slightly, once again.

She crosses her arms, as stubborn as a child at the edge of a tantrum. "I want to walk," she muttered. "Why can't I walk?"

He was calm when he explained to her. "Just for a few more hours – Simmons needs to take her vitals before you are allowed to freely roam." With those words he turned and left, his heart beating much faster than it had when he had arrived at her bedside.

After that, her voice was heard rather freely again; the hallways were brightened, the air seemed fresh, and a heavy weight had been removed from his heart.

* * *

_And so, the stories may spill onto the page and enter the minds of true readers._


	2. The Ever Present Nightmares

_Twice in one day...I must really like you guys! So this is the second installement of_ **before you, i was but an empty dream**. _Hope you guys like!_

* * *

"_I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares_." -Mark Z. Danielewski

* * *

The first time an _I love you _escaped from his lips, the words spilling, threatening, to overflow like a lid kept on too tight, was a time, a bridge, that he had thought (and begged) that they would never cross – his heart was beating faster than the ticking, ever whispering sound of the watch settled on his right wrist. His hands, long since having gone numb, were covered in the deadliest of colors; blood was spread to his hands, his heart, covering him in a way that no one should ever possibly know. It wasn't just the knowledge that blood was slinking through his palms; no, it was the face that it was _her _blood, blood that he was trying, desperately, to stop bleeding from the gaping wound in her stomach.

Her hand lies still as she stares up at him, expression rather blank. "Funny," she whispers, the sound of her voice echoing in his ears with a sudden clap of thunder. "Second time is always – "she pauses at this moment, her eyes flickering. " – always worse."

His teeth clenched. "Shut up," he hisses. "Shut up, Skye, save your breath."  
Beats were counting in his mind. _One, two, three _– the response team would be here any moment now, coming to take her to the nearest hospital. She only had to survive a few more seconds –

A harsh breath left her lungs, and he physically felt when they contract underneath his hands. He swallows. "C'mon Skye, stay with me," he pleads, but her eyes were already flickering closed as if struggling to stay open.

Around them, the rain was pouring down with such harshness he wouldn't have believed it had he not been there; the water was seeping into his thin, white shirt, the only piece of clothing on his upper torso. His jacket, having long been discarded, was now mixed in with the blood coming from her side, with him using it as a blocking barrier. Her hair was spread among the pavement, giving the illusion of almost being asleep – but she wasn't only slipping into sleep. Around them, there was a crowd of curious townspeople, all looking sympathetic. One had a cell phone out, as if to call the police.

Her eyes fluttered one last time, before quite suddenly, her breath left her lungs in a _whoosh_, his fingers touching her ribs.

"NO!" he yells, hands flying to her cheeks. "Damnit Skye, you can't die, you can't – please," he yelps, voice choking. "_I love you_."

The words are lost to the wind.

The medical team arrived the, in a blur of lights and sirens. It was all a whirl of blood and memories after that; he remembers refusing to let her slip from his hands before then a sharp pain in his neck, before nothing.

He wakes in a gasp, heart pounding wildly and sweating buckets – his feet automatically swing over the side of his small bunk and his head falls loosely to his hands, candling them in a comforting movement; but it isn't enough. He's blinking, breaths coming in heaving gasps, a choked sob rising in his throat.

_Just a dream, _he fights the lingering silver screen of sleep. _It was just a nightmare._

Quite suddenly he feels a smooth hand against his bare back; he can't see her, but her fingers slide quickly up to his cheek, turning it to face her. Her cheeks are rather red against the darkness of the room, but he can't see her feature's clearly – she's not dressed in much more than he is with a small tank top and denim shorts (with him only in boxers) but he can't bring himself to fully realize that she's _there_. That she's not dead.

Her eyes are chasing away sleep quicker than he did, her conscious coming to awareness. "Alright?" she whispers, lingering traces of clumsiness showing.

He turns fully to face her this time, pulling one foot up onto the bed so it rests near her hip. He leans down then, pressing the lightest of kisses to her collarbone before moving upward, ending with a simple, yet gentle kiss on the lips. "I'm fine," he promises back, soothing her worries (but not his) and he sees the worry dissipate in her eyes.

"Kay," she mutters one last time, the clutches of sleep only calling her. He watches, quietly, as her head rolls sideways and her nose lays inches from the small window.

Then he lies down beside her, hand catching her waist and pulling her flush against him. The sheets were cool against his legs and it was welcome to his sweaty palms. There's no more noise from her and he forces himself to close his eyes, ignoring the flashes of the nightmare.

_A dream_, he swears to himself as darkness overcomes him. _Just a stupid dream._

* * *

_Fun fact: I originally had Skye die in this little piece, but then decided that was way too depressing and went with this instead. Her funeral was sweet, but it, quite honestly, made me cry while I was writing it._


	3. Forever Lost

_Hey guys! So it was my birthday on monday (3/31) and I received a Mac Air! So happy and I'm trying this story on it. I'm still getting used to it and I typed this on __fan , i don't have microsfot word yet so its kinda weird. But I'll (hopefully) get word soon and be typing as fast as I can get these stories out to you!_

_So this is a SkyeWard high school AU; i don't typically do high school AU's, I've only ever written a Clintasha one, and that one was okay. But now I present, the story of a boy lost - and the girl who saved him.__  
_

* * *

"_It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone._" -John Steinbeck

* * *

He saw her, first, out of all of them; they were a clumsy mess, all limbs and no muscle, but that would soon change. He had been running for four years now, and as he scanned their faces, so eager, some bored, he could almost instantly spot the ones that would rise to the top. His eyes flickered over heads of brown, blond, and black - they were of all races, ages (though mostly freshman) and equally contained mostly zero amount of talent at the moment.

Then he caught sight of green eyes, and froze his gaze fixated on a mix of long legs, a bright smile, and a challenging spark that appears the moment his eyes rest on her. She's speaking fluidly, quickly, to another girl is rather small and seems more suited for the lab than the track by first glance. But he's not one to judge on appearances, so.

But her - he can't seem to stop watching; she's dressed in a pair of black spandex and a tank top, something none of the other girls are wearing. He elbows a person beside him, eyes narrowed.

"Who's that?" he asks, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

The boy turns, giving him a puzzled look. "That's a lotta kids. Which one?" He points her out then, and the other boy whistles. "Damn. No idea, but she's-"

He mentally turns off his hearing before the boy can continue, allowing himself to look at her. something about her seems almost too perfect - what is is, he cannot tell, but quite honestly he should stop staring because its starting to feel prevented. Him, a junior, eyeing a freshman? Impolite, and he was raised to be a gentleman.

When it is her turn to try out, however, he can't take his eyes off her.

* * *

Her name is Skye, he quickly finds out, and she transferred from somewhere far away along with her brother, Fitz, and father, a man named Coulson who appeared on campus at the most random of times if only to check up on her. He can't help but notice that she's _different _from all the other girls, even the ones in his grade; she carries herself with grace, yet still manages to keep her footing and holds her own. It's a rather strange mix that is not normally seen in a girl, but he sits on the sides and watches.

His running schedule is different than hers at first, but when she quickly moves up the ranks, joining him and a few other of the junior runners. She's not very popular with other people in her age group, he notices. The freshman boys are juvenile and the girls only care about looks; he's known that since his first year in high school. But she's different - she wants to get better and doesn't particularly care about looks.

But she's stunning anyway, and he continues watching like the true pervert he was; she's beautiful in every way possible and something about her draws him more than any other girl in his grade did. But it's not _right _for him to be feeling like that, so he shoves it in the back of his mind.

They stay far apart, though he rather thinks its because she doesn't know he exits (and hopes she believes vise versa) but he knows better than that; he's keeping his distance, trying to stay away. It isn't right to have feelings for a girl barely older than his dead brother.

He shivers at the thought, the wind blowing through the track. It's dark now, with the stars just barely coming and peaking over the moon. His feet scuffle against the rough red color, his mind escaping through thoughts; he hasn't seen his older brother, or his parents, for years now. After the death of Benjamin, his older brother had been tossed into prison and his parents had been killed soon after, in a car wreck. He remembers them, though faintly - its the kind of memory that has more taste than true realization to it. His aunt had taken him in, a single older woman with no kids of her own. She had raised him, yes, but it wasn't the same.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he fails to her the slight sound of gravel nearby. So when he looks up, it's into a half-smile, white teeth and all. _She's _standing before him, hands wrapped around her waist in a clear effort to keep out the cold. He watches, eyes narrowed, as she sits against the white post so he's looking down at her.

She offers him a rather half-hearted grin. "Mind if I join you?" she asks, voice carefully kept void of emotion.

He stares. It's not often he finds another person at the track, let alone _her_, the girl who's littered herself among his dreams in the last few months. _I__nappropriate, _he scolds himself, so he only offers a half-hearted shrug.

"It's a free country," he replies shortly, before turning and staring back up at the sky. _The sky_, he thinks bitterly.

Their breathing melts into the darkness, so much that before long he can't tell his breath from hers. But then there's scuffling again and she's suddenly standing beside him, head tilted slightly.

"Why do you come out here?" she asks, curiosity bleeding through her tone.

His walls fly up faster than he could barely realize, but then he fights to lower them. _It's her_, he inwardly screams. But the words tumble from his lips anyway. "I come here - well, not for the same reason you're here."_  
_

She stares at him, softly this time. "I doubt that," she speaks, voice slightly amused before melting into seriousness. "I come here to escape," she yells, echoing on the last word.

His hand is on her upper arm in a split second, as if to quiet her - it doesn't work. She smirks. "Wanna shut me up, pretty boy?"

He can't help it; he kisses her.

She responds, slow and steady, fingers digging into the front of his jacket while his find their way to her hips. When they finally break apart, breathless and breathing heavily, she speaks first.

"So," she whispers, not releasing the front of his jacket. "Why do you come here?"

"To escape," he whispers back, before capturing her lips with his once more.

They quickly learn that they're more alike than he first realized. They both love music - she has the voice of an angel and he plays guitar. Over the months following they fall deeper and deeper in love, more than anything he's ever felt before.

He graduates in May, after a year of being with her. She's getting ready to start her junior year and when he goes away to college, the last words he says to her are, "_I think I love you_."

And she responses with a laugh, a smirk, same as that night before. "_You think? I've been half in love with you the first time I saw you."_

* * *

But when he gets the call, two months into his first year at college, it's not a happy one. The night is a blue after that, but he still remembers those exact words that were whispered to him in those short two minutes: _Ward, it's Fitz. Skye's - she's been in an accident._

Those words echo in his mind as he drives there, fingers white against the wheel.

When she dies in the hospital with him beside her, her last words are, "_Don't forget me_."

"_I won't_," he swears.

And then the world is shattered into a thousand pieces and he's not sure where to begin picking himself up again.

* * *

_Yup. Sorry guys, that one was a bit depressing. There's not always happy endings - sometimes life happens and everything falls apart._


	4. Can't Live Without Her

_Hey guys! Sorry this is so short - it is a collection of one-shots, so they will most likely almost always be short. I suck at writing long term chapter stories so that's why I write one-shots. _

_Enjoy!_

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"_Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad_." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

When, her hand slips off the cliff, her fingers quite suddenly loosening out of his sight, he swears he looses ten years of his life as he swears, scrambling for her hand in a desperate attempt to stop his rookie from _plunging ninety feet off a cliff_.

"WARD!" she screams, her voice a mixture of fear and pain all wrapped neatly into one. He swallows hard, as he nearly pierces her skin with how tight he's holding her wrist.

One by one, finger by finger he pulls her up, keeping his own balance only by digging his feet into a dangerously misplaced root. But quite suddenly she's in his arms, shaking and gasping for air. His hands somehow find up placed right above her heart, feeling her pulse - _one_, he counts with a shaky breath. _Two_, he continues. _She's alight, _he tells himself as he feels her pulse slowly and carefully lower itself back to normal. _She's alive._

She's sobbing now, a puddle of tears and all things sorrow; he pulls her into his arms with a sudden strength and it's then that he notices that his hands are trembling. He can't lose her, he knows that now - and the fact that he had to figure it out by her nearly plunging to her death makes him swear never to take a mission in the jungle again.

The sunset is coming over the trees, in a blur of brightly lit colors; its so contrasted to his mood and relief that it takes him a moment to realize that exactly a sunset means. But when it does click, he inhales a sharp breath.

She doesn't move. She's in his lap now, her fingers moving slowly around his collar. He can feel the wetness of her tears leaking into his thin shirt, but he doesn't care - screw the mission, screw S.H.I.E.L.D; his rookie nearly died and she's clutching him tighter than anyone's ever held him before.

He comforts her for a long time, and when she finally does calm down it's not in a rush. The moon is slowly coming up when she takes a deep breath, wiping her tears away with the hanging sleeve of her jacket.

"Sorry," she whispers, voice full of emotion and unspeakable happenings.

"It's alright," he tells her, not wanting to upset her even more. "It's alright, everything's fine, I - I can't lose you, Skye." His voice chokes in the middle, thinking of what could have happened.

(Those last words are spoken against his will and he feels, painfully, when his heart constricts in his chest.)

She only looks at him, her eyes darkening. It's then she moves onto her knees, pressing the lightest of kisses on his lips before moving a single finger to his cheek. "Thank you," she breaths, before biting her lip. "Thank you for - for everything."

He takes another shuttering breath. "Rookie," he says, and its that one word that makes her smile.

* * *

They don't speak about it for a bit. The kiss, that is. The mission report is filed as _failed _with a gigantic red stamp on it, but when Skye tells Coulson what happens he receives a bone shattering hug from the man. Skye is like a daughter to Coulson, someone that he can't afford to lose.

(He can't afford to lose his rookie for a completely different reason, and none of it involve platonic feelings.)

It's two weeks later when she sneaks into his bunk, tears staining her cheeks. He welcomes her and she settles beside him, their heads settling onto the pillow with surprisingly ease. She falls asleep, but he doesn't; he lays awake, because if he sleeps, the nightmares will come.

And they will bring her plunging off a cliff to her death, this time, with no one to save her.

He can't lose her. Now now.

Not ever.


	5. Forgiveness

_So my friend started watching Arrow, and she came to me today and told me that Laurel and Oliver made a perfect couple and should totally get back together and that Tommy died so they could get together._

_And I was like **what**._

_So we have started a war; currently I'm up by finding about twenty pictures of olicity (because olicity is FOREVER) and she only has two good ones of Laurel and Oliver, so, I think it's clear who is the better couple. Olicity is awesome and will be endgame._

_SHE WILL NOT WIN THAT WAR._

_AND I WILL GO DOWN WITH THAT SHIP._

_Thank you *takes a bow* and now please return to your regular scheduled fanfic._

* * *

"_We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be_." -Kurt Vonnegut

* * *

Even now, after almost loosing her to the ever slipping fingers of death itself, he still is planted firmly in the land of denial in the sense that he believes she _cannot _die. She just can't; his life without her is a flower without petals, a dancer without grace - she was just there, a part of him that he couldn't, wouldn't forget.

He knows, at the very bottom of his soul, that she would not be around forever. The nature of their jobs, especially now that she had become an agent, would kill them off before they even made it to middle age. He didn't expect to live past thirty five. His age was a ripe one of thirty now, and he's been staring at the imaginary clock ever since the hands ticked past the three. Life is short, he knows, but life without her is as good as not living at all.

But then she had looked at him like he was no better than the men they strove to rid the world of; she had looked at him like his own parents had when his older brother had told them it was _him _who had pushed little Jacob into the well - where he promptly drowned while he pinned his other brother back.

His heart rate was faster than normal, something he constantly fought to keep under control. Anxiety, fear, love - those were the things he knew would kill. He had sworn to never fall in love; he would only be left, like his brother, like his parents.

And then he met her, a whirlwind of promises and quick talking; she was so unlike anyone he had ever met, with a spark of chemistry that he swore wasn't possible. Her bright eyes held pain, yes, but they also held hope, something he hadn't felt (or cared to feel) in a long time. She had been the very key he needed in order to carry the urge to live; before her, he went on almost suicidal missions, almost daring, hoping, to die. Now, he couldn't. He had something to live for.

She was the only thing that kept him anchored to this world; and thus, his mind and body are determined that she _cannot _die. Yes, she can physically die - but no, he will not let her. He will kill a thousand men before a scratch even touches her.

Yet she was shot, and yes she was threatened; that was why Thomas Nash's threat had forced a flash of anger onto him. She had almost fell through his palms before he even had a chance to tell her how he felt about her. He had not acted with his head, no, but with his heart.

That had erupted a series of emotions that he hadn't felt in such a long, long time. His own former mentor, before Agent Garett, a young girl who had more blood on her hands then he did, had warned him about falling in love. _Love is dangerous, _she had spoken in the depths of the night, when only the pair of them were awake training. _Love is the final bullet that kills; falling into love is no better than signing your death sentences yourself_.

He hadn't seen the fiery redhead since France, a mission that had left them both deeply injured and her in a catatonic state. He wanted to stay by her side; but that position was filled with a sandy haired man who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, since the girl had been brought back unconscious. In his heart, Ward had looked at the man; he had seen the careful, fragile love in his eyes for his mentor. And so he had left them alone and requested a new partner.

Love was a deadly game; it was one that he had avoided for so long he had hardly knew what it was like to _feel_. But of course, life throws curveballs his way faster than he could blink and then she was in his path, stumbling around and revealing feelings that he never knew he had.

And that was why he was standing in front of her door now, breathing heavy, his palm spread across the glass. The hand not against the door was tapping at his side, fingernails digging sharply into the skin of his palm. He was nervous, yes, but he wanted her to stop looking at him like he was a monster. He killed to protect; he no longer killed for something. He now killed for _someone_. Even if that someone wouldn't speak to him since the incident.

But that one thought gave him courage, so he took a deep breath and pushing the door open, moving his feet from carpet to a deep wood. A sliver of light fell on a mound of blankets curled up on the bed; her slight breathing hit a wayward piece of sheet every time she took a circle of air. Her eyes were closed, peacefully, as she slept, with the blankets tucked in around her. Her knees were more up towards her chest and her hands were cradled underneath her head, creating a barrier between her hair and the pillow. But her hair was woven downwards, creating the illusion of a sort of shimmering waterfall. It was perched in a fishtail braid at the moment, something that he rarely saw her wear. She looked so perfect, so innocent, that for a moment, he hesitated.

Instead of leaving though, he squared his shoulders before moving a hand downward. His fingers gently touched her shoulder and as it did so, she flinched. His hand retracted immediately as her eyes began to flutter open, her mouth parting in a small yawn. She sat up slowly, stretching as she did, before her vision began to truly adjust to the darkness.

When she saw him, her eye widened in a flash. "Ward?" she asked, her voice suddenly suspicious. "What are you doing here?"

He paused for a moment, his mind flashing at the sound of her voice. But he kept his voice even when he spoke. "I need to talk to you."

Her expression became guarded. "No," she spoke stubbornly. "Please get out."

"No."

His one word response caused her to groan. "Oh god, Ward, just go away. I don't want to talk to you."

The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I think you do."

Her eyebrows furrowed; she looked genuinely curious and pissed off at the same time. "And why is that?"

"Skye," he says gently, avoiding her question in response to his. "Please."

She sits up, rustling the sheets, settling against the wall with her knees pulled to her chest. "Two minutes," she replied shortly. "Now talk."

He took a shuddering breath. "Yes, I shot a man. Yes, I killed someone. Yes, I have killed before. But that is who I am. I was born, bred, to kill. But I do not kill in cold blood; this isn't the first time, Skye, and you have to get used to that - especially if you are going to succeed as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent."

Her cheeks are flushed, but she remains steady. "I will not kill," she hisses before drawing her lip in with her teeth.

He bites his tongue. "Skye -"

He hears a faint, "screw it," before there's a sudden weight on his chest, hands flying on his collar and lips on his. His fingers find her waist with suprising speed and they're kissing like it's the last thing either of them will do; he's not sure what to do but he sure as hell isn't stopping this.

They will fight, yes. And eventually, they will die. But to live in the moment is what the key to living truly is.

* * *

_Sorry the ending is rather rushed guys. I'm still adjusting writing on my laptop because its not with Microsoft anymore it's with pages and the keyboard is VERY different. _


	6. Pulse

_So...hello! This is just a short little ficlet that I've had in my rough drafts for a while now but never posted. Keep in mind, it isn't my best or anything, but instead just a collection of my thoughts formed into one little drabble._

* * *

"_The marks humans leave are too often scars._" -John Green

* * *

Her screams are an echo of such desperation, such pain, that it sends shivers skittering down his spine, forcing his jaw to set and his teeth to clench. His fingers are curled, the tips taking the rough space of his palm in a rhythm, as if to distract him from what was going on before his eyes.

She was pinned to the chair her wrists and ankles bound to the cold metal as an electric rod droves itself up from under her ribs Her arms and legs are littered with cuts and bruises, a result of the knife that had been pressed violently against her skin not twenty minutes ago, and there was blood starting to crust at her temple, bleeding from where the crown of her hair met her skin. Her entire being is trembling as the sounds of her torture escape her lips, entering the metal paneled room and piercing his ears with such a pitch that he has to physically fight himself not to bolt over and make her pain stop. But he can't; he made that choice the moment HYDRA raided S.H.I.E.L.D's secret base, the moment he stunned all members of the team - and the split second where he had jerked the barrel of his gun against her temple, forcing her to crumble like a tin can.

His eyes flickered shut, forcing himself to take deep breaths. But it's then that the spark of electricity in the air fades along with her screams, leaving echoing pants and sharp, shallow breaths behind. He watches carefully as Garett looms in front of her, his hand clutching the side of her bruised face roughly.

"The password," the man warns, his eyes boring into Skye. "Just gimme the password and this will all be over."

But then her eyes jolt over to him, a flash of pure anger flashing through them. "Go to hell," she croaks, and it's then he knows that she was talking to him, not Garett.

Garett nods and then the rod is pressed to her other side this time, her screams and sobs echoing harshly. When it's done though, her head drops and his head freezes, his feet taking a step forward before he could help himself. _Skye, _he nearly screams. _Don't be dead, you can't be dead, not now, please - _

But then Garett's lifting her face up, searching her eyes carefully and moving his fingers to her wrist to check for a pulse. He frowns as he says, "She's only unconscious." Then his finger jerks and two men standing in the corner move towards Skye.

This time Ward can't help himself; he's crossing the room in an instant, his hands grasping at her bonds and pulling them loose. He's lifting her into the air, one hand slipping underneath her thighs and the other around her lower back, carrying her softly. Under Garett's watchful eyes, he says, "I'll take her back to her cell."

The man nods, his attention already focused elsewhere. "Just hurry up, I need you back in the main room as soon as you're done."

Ward nods, relief filling his chest. "Yes, sir," he says, keeping his voice controlled.

Inside, he's terrified of what will happen to her.

He grabs a medical kit on the way there and nearly bolts to her room, keep one of his fingers firmly positioned on her neck, making sure her pulse was there. It was weak, but it was there.

_It was there._

He breathes a sigh of relief.

_I will get you out of here, _he swears as he gently applies medicine to her wounds. _I promise._

* * *

_Thoughts?_


	7. A World Where it is Only the Pair of Us

_This is just a short little fluff piece that I wanted to get out of my system. Enjoy!_

* * *

"You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not." -Jodi Picoult

* * *

When she wakes up, darkness flashing beneath her eyelids, her chest heaving, she can't really breath for a moment; it's as if all the air has been sucked from her lungs, her throat closing up while she jerks upward, her elbows forming a bridge as they planted themselves into the clean sheets, fisting them in her palms tightly.

After two beats or so, she manages to force herself to calm down. It works; her eyes flicker open, adjusting to the darkened room, her thoughts quickly chasing away the former remnants of the nightmare that had plagued her dreams since she had fallen asleep. One hand moves up, wiping a bit of sweat off her temple. She swallows, before her memory catches up to her brain and she realizes that she's not alone.

Blinking eyes flash beside her, one balled up fist moving to wipe the sleep out of one eye. His head is tilted as he moves himself upward, propping his elbow up so he's facing her, his bare chest clearly seen under the moonlight filtering through the small window above them. She feels his toes on her calf, brushing against it gently as he, rather slowly, begins to fully wake up.

"Hey," he whispers, his voice low and soothing. She latches onto it, one hand moving underneath her, forcing herself back down. She settles back onto the pillow, turning on her side. One hand reaches out; her finger tentatively touch his hairline before continuing, moving to spread her fingers through his hair. It gives her a grip on reality.

"Hey," she murmurs back, her tone quiet. "Go back to sleep, I'm fine."

"I hate that word," a rather sleep-filled voice says.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine," she teases him, rolling the word off her tongue. It annoys him to hell, she knows; but then he's rolling over, one leg slipping over her middle and pinning her to the mattress. She yelps as he does so, his face moving downward before pausing millimeters from her lips.

"Skye," he grumbles, their breaths mingling in the cold air. Her shoulders are bare, she remembers, as he gently places one palm on her shoulder and brushes his thumb off it. "What's wrong?"

Instead of replying to his question, she closes the gap between them, capturing his bottom lip. He responds immediately, one hand moving to thread itself into her hair. They kiss for a bit and her heart beat quickens and when they separate after a few beats, she makes a noise in the back of her throat.

"No," she says, narrowing her eyes, one hand looping around the back of his neck. She pulls him down to meet her again but he resists, moving his hands are pressing his palms deeply into the mattress on either side of her.

"Skye," he speaks, his tone slightly scolding."

"Ward," she mimics his name, taking on the same pitch as he did when he spoke.

His eyebrows raise. "Are you alright?" His voice is firmer this time.

"I'm great," she reassures him. And she is — all memory of the nightmare is gone, soothed by his presence. "Ward — I'm okay."

His eyes blink down at her, his head tilting to the side slightly. By the look in his eyebrows, he doesn't believe her, but doesn't choose to elaborate on it; instead, he leans down and slants his lips over hers again.

And as she kisses him back, she gets lost in a world with only the pair of them.

* * *

_Can't wait for the season finale!_


	8. A Desperate Wish Of Escape

_This is just a quick little piece I wrote during my journalism class. It's unedited, but I really just needed to get this posted. I think I'm gonna try and do a longer piece based off this a little later in the week if I have time._

_For now,_ enjoy.

* * *

"_I'm here. I love you. I don't care if you need to stay up crying all night long, I will stay with you. There's nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and I am braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me._" -Elizabeth Gilbert

* * *

The air was quiet, peaceful almost, with a cool breeze flickering out from the vents about six feet or so above them, a metal grate across the ceiling. When it comes on, she feels him flinch; her fingers pause in the motion and his head jerks up from where it's settled on her collarbone, narrowly missing her chin. He's trembling now, she notices, but she only slips her hand down and presses hard on the small of his back, keeping him firmly in place — theoretically, of course, because they both know that he could slip out of her hold in a split second if he panics, but she trusts him. Even after all they've been through, even after his betrayal, their pain, he is still the one her heart beats for, the one that she's learned to firmly latch onto and never let go.

His eyes seem wild for a second as he stares at her, his expression slightly confused. His breathing is ragged as one of his hands grips her knee tightly. Her leg twitches, her heel pressing against the side of his upper thigh. Her legs are folded over his at the moment, with her knees forming a triangle. She's pressed up against the smooth metal of the wall, with his weight nearly settled over her.

One of her hands moves up then, brushing against the back of his hair. She moves forward, his lips brushing against of the corner of his mouth. When she speaks, their breaths mingle, the panic in his eyes fading slightly. "You're okay," she murmurs, her tone low and soothing. "Everything's fine."

He slumps then, his shoulder hitting the wall beside her. They're intertwined, their bodies pressed against each other, in a way that would probably give Coulson a heart attack if he walked in. But she didn't care — he needed this. He needed to be held, because after three months of torture, both mental and physical, locked up in a prison, she wanted him to know that someone still cared. That someone still loved him.

Because she loved him as a hurricane used the wind, as much as she needed the breathe. He was a part of her that she could not get rid of, no matter how hard she had tried; his betrayal had nearly broken her, but even then, her heart still beat.

He shudder then and her fingers begin moving again, running the length of his back, soothing him. His eyes slam shut for a moment as his lips form into a circle, jerking an inch or so away from her. She waits, patiently. After his rescue, he'd been closed up. But now, three weeks later, he's begun to let her in.

In the beginning, he wouldn't let anyone touch him _except _her. Torture had taken it's toll on him and now even Coulson regretted releasing him to the government. They had been so harsh on him, she knew, but nothing was compared to the mental toll Garett had taken on Ward.

She shivered then, the cool air prickling on her shoulders. She's wearing little more than a tank top and frayed shorts, something that she had randomly grabbed when he had appeared outside her bunk, the nightmares plaguing him.

He feels this and looks towards her, his eyes dark. His head leans down then, his face pressed against her collarbone as it had been before. One hand continues to run the length of his back, while the other lightly rubs itself through her hair. His palm is still pressing tightly to her knee, his other hand wandering. But then it settles over her stomach, rubbing over the two, scabbed over wounds. She can feel him tense, but then she gently moves away from him, placing two fingers under his chin and forcing him to look at her.

"I'm alright," she tells him. "I'm alive, you're alive — no one's hurt."

"Skye," he croaks, the pain evident in his voice. It's moments like this that her heart hurts for him; after everything he's been through, he still doesn't believe that he deserves redemption. She's told him, over and over again, that Garett was controlling him. She'd learned of his history, of his terrible past. It had taken a while, but she had forgiven him. "Skye," he repeats, her name a shallow breath.

His mentality is little more than a wounded child at that moment, so she only soothes him. He's damaged — but then again, so is she.

* * *

_My friend walked up to me today and said, "Hey, are you excited for tomorrow's epis-" then she paused and her expression turned really sad and then she said, "Damnit, I forgot. No episode tomorrow."_

_And I nearly started crying in the middle of the hallway. How will we survive these next months without aos?_


End file.
